


No Evil

by 29Pieces



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst and Humor, BUT ONLY TEMPORARILY, Blind Aramis, Brotherhood, Deaf Porthos, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Hurt Aramis, Hurt Athos, Hurt Porthos, Hurt/Comfort, Mute Athos, Protective Aramis, Protective Porthos, Rescue, Teamwork, d'Artagnan is here too, the boys have each others' backs, there's a plot if you squint for one, yeah everybody gets hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-11-08 04:06:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17974169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/29Pieces/pseuds/29Pieces
Summary: All in all, it could have been worse. Athos was a man of few words anyway. Aramis was a better shot while blindfolded than anyone in the garrison with their sight. And even if Porthos could have heard the enemy soldiers, it wasn’t like he knew Spanish for it to be any use. Nevertheless, their daring escape was going to prove tricky under these conditions…





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! Back with another piece of fun! This was inspired by the three wise monkeys (hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil) and wondering how our heroes would fare if each (temporarily) lost one of their senses and had to work together to get out of a sticky situation. Humor (and h/c) ensues.
> 
> Thanks Aini Nufire for being such an awesome beta!

**Part 1: Athos**

It was just as well that Athos couldn't speak; watching the Spanish soldiers dragging Porthos and Aramis in, he didn't know whether he would have laughed at the absurd inevitability that they would show up, or given them both a piece of his mind for getting caught in a foolish rescue attempt.

"Get your hands off 'im!" Porthos snarled as Aramis was torn away, which was comfortingly familiar.

Aramis had a hastily wrapped bandage over his eyes, which was neither comforting nor familiar.

"Alright, I'm going," Aramis huffed towards his captors, followed up by something in Spanish; the little of the language that Athos knew was a combination of the polite words he'd learned as a child and the rude words he'd learned from Aramis.

Aramis wasn't using the polite ones.

Watching with arched brow, Athos waited until his two friends had been secured to the wall by manacles attached to a length of chain before deciding that if this was a rescue, it was going very poorly indeed.

The soldiers left with a smirk and a few muttered words among themselves—also nothing polite—and then Athos immediately gestured towards Aramis's bandaged face and looked to Porthos.

"W-?" he managed to wheeze, but his throat was too bruised and damaged to form the actual words. Porthos wasn't looking at him, but watching Aramis anxiously instead. He didn't respond to Athos's attempt to find out what was going on, which the swordsman found to be rather rude.

Aramis, however, straightened and cocked his head. "Athos?" he called. "Is that you?"

Unable to answer, Athos knocked one of his own chains against the damp stone floor.

Aramis smirked. "Are we playing two for yes, one for no?"

With a roll of his eyes, Athos knocked the chains twice. Immediately, Aramis's face spread into a wide grin nearly hidden by the bandages. "You see, Porthos, I told you this would work. Look, we found him!"

It seemed almost laughably optimistic to call whatever their plan had been a "success", given the number of chained musketeers now occupying the cell had tripled in the last two moments. Athos's frown returned to Porthos, concerned by his friend's silence as much as the condition of Aramis's face, but the bigger Musketeer only yelled,

"Aramis, Athos is in here, too! We found 'im!"

Well, that seemed like a superfluous acknowledgement if ever Athos had heard one.

"Yes, my friend, this has been established," Aramis retorted with a sigh. "But why isn't he saying anything?"

"What?" Porthos shouted.

"I said,  _why isn't he saying any-_ oh, forget it, he can't hear a word I'm saying. Athos, get Porthos's attention, will you? He needs to tell me what condition you're in."

Athos waved his arms as much as the manacles would allow, finally resorting to plucking a button off his torn shirt and chucking it at Porthos's head. Though the swordsman half expected it to go unfelt through Porthos's hard skull, his friend turned towards him with a frown.

"Did you say somethin'?" Porthos shouted.

"He can't say anything, that's the point," Aramis groused. Porthos didn't hear him.

Athos shook his head and gestured towards his throat. Porthos's face darkened even more, which would have been terrifying if Athos had been a foe rather than a friend. Porthos's scowl was equally dangerous as Aramis's smile. Shifting over as close to Athos as he could get with the chains in the way, Porthos tipped Athos's chin to examine his neck.

He swore. "No wonder you can't talk, all bruised up like that. What did they do to you?"

Pointing towards the door to indicate the soldiers that had left, Athos then lifted his hands to his throat in a pantomime of being strangled. Porthos's fist tightened.

"Those  _bastards_ -"

"What? What happened?" Aramis called from the other wall. "Porthos, you have to use your words!"

Porthos didn't hear him.

"I'm gonna tear 'em limb from limb-"

" _Why_ , what did they do?"

"-an' then I'm gonna burn what's left, for that."

"For  _what?_ Athos, _por el amor de Dios_ , will you make him tell me what's happened?"

Athos rolled his eyes, tapping Porthos's shoulder to pause the tirade, then pointed back to Aramis. Porthos's brow creased.

"What?" He glanced over his shoulder. "Oh yeah, 'im. Well, we were tryin' to find you, but it's a big castle, y'know?"

"What? No, don't tell him the story yet, I want to know how  _he's_  doing!"

Athos nodded at Porthos to continue, wanting to know exactly how his friends had gotten to be in their own predicaments.

"Well, I guess they figured there'd be a rescue comin'. One of the doors was booby-trapped. Exploded in Aramis's face when he went to open it. You shoulda heard 'im carryin' on, you know how he is about his face, an' what are the ladies of Paris gonna say-"

"That's not what I said! If you're going to tell the story, at least tell it right! Hey, I'm talking to you!"

Porthos didn't hear him.

Athos nodded again, leaning around Porthos to wince in sympathy, not that Aramis would see it. He prayed the explosion hadn't done any lasting damage and that the sharpshooter's eyes would heal; all jocularity aside, he knew Aramis was much more concerned with his eyesight than the face that had instigated adultery from one side of France to the other.

Assessment of Aramis complete, Athos looked back to Porthos and pointed to his ears with a questioning expression.

"Oh, uh… yeah, I can't hear you," Porthos admitted, as though that had remotely been in question. "Guess even the Spaniards couldn't miss that explosion. I only had time to bandage 'im up before they came pourin' in. Not much of a fair fight, what with havin' to keep 'em away from Aramis. One of 'em boxed my ears pretty good."

"Eardrums are ruptured," Aramis supplied.

"I think it must have ruptured my eardrums or somethin'."

"His head's going to be ringing for a while."

"Got this sorta muted ringin', but can't hear anything else." Porthos offered Athos a toothy grin. "Reckon next time Treville tries to give me stable duty, I can just pretend I didn't hear 'im?"

Athos didn't need any words to answer that, just shot Porthos his driest look.

Aramis was even less impressed, which was saying quite a lot, as he yanked against the chains. "Damn it, how is he, Porthos? We came all this way to rescue him from the Spanish and now I can't even see him!"

Taking pity on the blinded musketeer, Athos grabbed Porthos's arm and pointed towards Aramis, then at his own throat, before extending a hand towards him as an invitation to speak. Porthos blinked and his expression cleared.

"Oh! Right, Aramis, it looks like they must've strangled 'im. His throat's all bruised up, but aside from that, I think he's okay?" He raised his eyebrows in question, to which Athos nodded.

Behind them, Aramis took up an impressive display of bilingualism in which he cursed their captors in both tongues. "Much as I've wanted to do the same thing myself at times, I'm rather peeved with them for actually  _doing_ it. Whatever did you do to make them so mad?"

Athos mimed buttoning his lips closed, then again gestured to Porthos to relay the message. Without having heard the question, Porthos was left to frown and hedge,

"Er… he says… he… can't speak?"

"I  _know_ that! Porthos, have I ever told you how infuriating you are?"

Crossing his arms, Athos leaned back into a position of ease and shook his head, buttoning his mouth shut again. Porthos grinned.

"Oh, no, I think he's sayin' he  _didn't_ speak. Wouldn't answer their questions, I guess. Yeah, that looks like Athos bein' all stubborn, guess they weren't amused."

Athos nodded, sitting back up. In any case, if this was going to become a rescue at any point, it needed to happen sooner rather than later. Though all three of them had been in worse positions, he didn't relish the thought of what those soldiers could do to his friends in their vulnerable state. Athos held out his chained hands towards Porthos with raised brow.

"Yeah, we got it covered. Aramis, I'm comin' back over to you. They didn't take your field medic bag, right?"

"No, I think it's still here."

More clanking of chains as Aramis felt around his waist until he found the leather pouch kept close at hand in case of emergencies. They tended to have a lot of emergencies. Setting the bag down on the grimy floor, Aramis undid the flaps with clumsy movements.

"I got it," Porthos said, back at Aramis's side and nudging him out of the way.

"It's the one that looks like a knife."

"Now which one is it?"

"Why am I even bothering?"

"This one?"

"Well, I suppose if I could see which one you were talking about, I could answer yes or no," Aramis drawled. He held out his hand, accepting the tool that Porthos had selected, and ran his fingers around the contours. "Yes, this one. Hold on." The marksman slid the scalpel blade away from its handle, revealing a slim pick that had been incased within. "Here, you'll be able to do it faster, being able to see."

Porthos took the extended pick, making quick work of Aramis's manacles and then slipping back over to Athos to free him as well. As soon as the chains fell at last from Athos's wrists, he took the pick from Porthos and swiftly set him loose. Movement came slowly when he tried to stand, as long as he'd been a prisoner. Fortunately, he was quite used to having to stumble around, though this time the usual ache in his head was replaced by the pain in his throat where he still felt the soldiers' hands nearly crushing his windpipe.

Athos shook this off, though; they needed to leave as quickly as possible. They could worry about healing up once they were safely away from this place.

"Alright," Aramis said, tucking his medic pouch away again and rising confidently to his feet. "Let's get out of here." He strode boldly forward, forcing Athos to lunge over to grab him and turn the musketeer in the direction of the door rather than the far wall, before he walked into solid stone. "Ah, yes. This is the way."

Athos was desperate to ask if there was actually a plan here, or if they were going with the other option of making it up as they went and hoping for the best. To be fair, that tactic had served them well on occasion. Releasing Aramis's arm, he spread his hands out to Porthos in a gesture of questioning.

"Don't worry, we got a plan!" Porthos yelled.

"Thank you, now we can all be deaf together," Aramis griped. "Athos, as soon as that door opens, Porthos will take out the sentry. I'll get his gun and you can have his sword, and we'll fight our way out of here. D'Artagnan is standing by with the horses out of sight. Got it?"

There was a pause as Athos stared at Aramis. That was the plan, in its entirety?

Weakened by over a week of captivity, their escape relied on his ability to even hold a sword, let alone wield it against an entire castle of enemies, side by side with a blind man aiming a gun?

Good, then. He'd been a little worried they'd come bursting in half-cocked without any ideas for getting back out again. Athos nodded.

Aramis huffed. "Porthos, is he saying yes or no?"

Porthos couldn't hear him.

Grabbing Porthos's shoulder, Athos gave him an exaggerated nod and pointed to Aramis.

"Oh, eh… he says yeah, Aramis. About whatever you said."

"Excellent. Get ready, Porthos- oh, right, Athos, make sure he's ready."

Athos gave Porthos's arm a squeeze, both of them falling back a pace to allow the door room to open. Aramis started yelling something in Spanish; Athos could just make out that it was some kind of plea for help from the nearest sentry. He nodded approval. An old classic. Excellent choice.

From somewhere outside, Athos heard loud footsteps and the rattle of keys.

Time to get out of there.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's reviewed/favorited/followed :) Usually I write whump and h/c and angst, so playing around with humor and getting such a good response from you wonderful people has been so encouraging! ^_^ So thanks for that!

**Part 2: Porthos**

By all accounts, the plan had no right to work as well as it did.

In less than a minute after the sentry came through the door, Athos had a sword, Aramis a pistol, and the guard was unconscious on the floor courtesy of Porthos’s unbreakable hold. With Athos at his side, throat still marked in bruises, Porthos didn’t feel remotely sorry for the enemy soldier.

“You know what you’re doin’ with that thing, right?” he couldn’t help but ask Aramis, watching his friend running his hands blindly over the stolen gun. At least, he was pretty sure he’d asked the question, but frustratingly he couldn’t hear himself to be positive.

Porthos couldn’t read lips to know what exactly his friend replied, but from Aramis’s exaggerated posture, he seemed unimpressed with the question. Porthos shrugged and turned to Athos, seeing an equally amused but dryly cynical expression as though wondering if Porthos had _really_ asked such a thing.

The big musketeer grinned; Athos didn’t need his voice to be able to speak quite plainly sometimes. At any rate, the reaction was justly deserved. He didn’t actually doubt his friend’s ability for one second, not when he’d played a key role in many a lucrative hustle with unsuspecting victims who didn’t believe Aramis could hit a target whilst blindfolded. He knew better than anyone that Aramis was just as dangerous like this as he had ever been.

“Right,” he thought he said. “What was I thinkin’?” Porthos moved towards the open door. “Come on, then, the sooner we get outta here, the better-”

He nearly found himself on his backside on the floor as a hand gripped him on either arm, wrenching him back again. Porthos blinked in surprise but quickly recovered his footing. He held instinctively silent as Athos pressed a finger to his lips in warning, then pointed towards the hall. Porthos nodded in understanding.  

On his other side, Aramis cocked his head and said something, judging by the movement of his mouth. Biting back a frustrated sigh, Porthos swiveled back to Athos for interpretation.

Athos held up one finger, then used two to mime a pair of walking legs. Ah, just one man, then. Porthos cracked his knuckles and grinned. Good, he still had plenty of aggression to work out of his system.

Movement to his left brought his attention back to Aramis, who was now aiming the stolen pistol in the general direction of the door, but Porthos quickly pushed his arm back down.

“They’ll hear,” he whispered in what he hoped was his quietest voice. “Let me.” Besides, Aramis might have been the best shot in the garrison, with or without his sight, but better to save the shot for a more desperate situation. As dire as their predicament probably seemed on the outside, this was hardly anything they couldn’t handle. The Spaniards were about to learn that, to their great misfortune. 

Motioning for Athos to push himself back against the wall by the door, unseen, Porthos grabbed Aramis to guide him to the opposite side of the door. He waited with bated breath, eyes glued to Athos for his friend’s signal.

Athos was frowning, but it was his intense frown of concentration, which was quite different from his placid frown of cool indifference, which again was altogether dissimilar from his haughty frown of annoyance. Those who didn’t know him might find Athos singularly difficult to read, but Porthos was by now fluent in the many frowns of Athos, and he was glad his friend knew without needing to be told what Porthos was waiting for.

 _One,_ Athos mouthed, holding up a finger. Porthos clenched his fists.

 _Two…_ another finger to join the first. Porthos forced himself to let go of his desperation to hear what he was never going to hear, and clung instead to his trust in Athos.

_Three!_

Athos nodded with a sharp jerk of his head. Porthos lunged forward, arm already swinging out like a club. He connected solidly with something big and round. Not like a ball was round, more like a whale was round. And whales weren’t particularly round, but they were certainly big and didn’t like being hit, which made the metaphor a rather apt one nonetheless.

Porthos didn’t know if the whale made any sound as it crashed to the ground, though he had never heard a whale fall silently so it probably did make noise. Then again, his experience with falling whales, silent or loud, was limited to… well, nothing. At any rate, the soldier he’d caught straight in the throat collapsed, stunned just long enough that Porthos was able to get on top of him. With his knees pinning the guard’s arms, Porthos shoved one hand over the man’s mouth and pinched his nose shut with his other. The whale struggled but he was only desperate to save himself, and Porthos was desperate to save his friends.

It gave him the edge and the will to hold on, and soon the whale slumped down, unconscious. Porthos was a little concerned with how little effort this was taking, but for now he was going to accept the small gift. Even better, the whale was about the right size. Grinning, he reached for the downed soldier and started unbuttoning his shirt.

“You should put on the other uniform, Athos,” he suggested. “Might need to blend in, an’ you’ll be a more believable soldier than ‘im with those bandages.”

A hand fell on his arm, and Porthos looked up to see Athos’s concerned expression. There was barely any difference between this look and the carefully blank one he usually wore, but Porthos was also well versed in the empty expressions. Especially when Athos pantomimed shooting him.

“I know, they could shoot us as spies if we’re outta uniform,” he agreed, but his grin didn’t slacken. “But we’re not spyin’, we’re escapin’. And if they catch us doin’ _that_ , we’ll probably be shot anyway.”

He didn’t know what information they’d been hoping to get out of Athos to begin with; but if the Spaniards had been willing to hurt him in a way that he _couldn’t_ talk even if he’d decided to, it must not have been important enough that they cared much about keeping their prisoner alive. That didn’t bode well. All kidding aside, Porthos was anxious to get Athos home, away from his tormentors.

He and Athos swiftly exchanged uniforms with the downed soldiers, though Porthos gathered his own jerkin and pauldron up carefully and wrapped them in a bundle with his cloak. Athos’s had already been taken from him, but Porthos wasn’t about to leave his own behind. Fastening the bundle across his shoulder, Porthos took one of Aramis’s arms, with Athos at the other one. Since the blinded Musketeer needed guiding anyway, now it would look like two soldiers escorting a prisoner.

Porthos paused when Athos leaned around to hit his arm, giving him an exaggerated nod and then tilting his head towards their compatriot.

“Eh… Aramis, he says yes. About… whatever.” Neither of the two clarified for him, so Porthos hoped it wasn’t a vital bit of information to their plan that he ought to know about. As they pushed their way into the corridor at last, Athos hit him again, this time shaking his head.

Porthos exhaled in disgruntled impatience. “An’ now he says no.”

He couldn’t hear what Aramis responded through the ringing in his head, but pressed in as he was he could feel the vibration of the sharpshooter’s voice. Athos nodded again with his lips twitching suspiciously, and this time Porthos glowered.

“He says yes this time. Here now, you two aren’t talkin’ about me, are you? I can’t hear you, it’s not fair.” 

He felt Aramis’s laugh, and Athos was very clearly smiling now, though it would take one of his closest friends to recognize the lightening of his normally expressionless face for what it was. Porthos growled low in his chest and considered steering Aramis into a low hanging beam.

Not like a serious consideration, just a passing fancy.

“Steps,” he warned his friend as the trio came upon a flight of stairs, only to have Athos put a warning finger to his lips. Right. “Steps,” Porthos repeated in what he hoped was a lower voice. It was hard to be sure. Gripping Aramis tighter in case his feet faltered, Porthos glanced behind them to visually assure himself they weren’t being followed. Not being able to hear approaching enemies was starting to set him on edge, the crushing silence—or as silent as turbulent ringing could be—more oppressive than the dark cold of the unfriendly castle.

The trio made their ungainly way up the staircase, not wide enough for all three of them to walk abreast. Porthos pushed Athos to the front, unwilling to take his eyes off either of the two, all but holding his breath as they made it to the top of the steps. Athos held up a hand.

“Wait,” Porthos hissed as softly as he thought he could so Aramis would know what was happening. He waited as Athos leaned around the corner of the stairs, head twisting this way and that, before nodding and motioning all clear. Porthos squeezed Aramis’s arm and urged him the rest of the way up onto the landing.

Athos took Aramis’s other side once more, but turned to Porthos with a furrowed brow of uncertainty. Aramis’s body vibrated again from his voice, and then his bandaged face was tilted towards Porthos as well.

Oh… they didn’t know where to go now. Athos couldn’t be expected to remember how he’d been brought in after a week of captivity and Aramis couldn’t have been watching the turns and landmarks.

Porthos jerked his head to the left. “This way,” he rumbled.

Together, he and Athos frog-marched Aramis down the stone corridor, the marksman concealing his hands under his cloak to hide the stolen pistol. Porthos guided them along the same turns they’d been forced along after being taken captive, retracing their steps and waiting with bated breath for the slightest twitch from the other two that there were voices approaching.

Thankfully the lower halls seemed to be mostly empty. Porthos’s stomach told him it was probably suppertime and the castle denizens were likely gathered to eat. He noticed they hadn’t bothered bringing food to the prisoners. That was unbelievably rude.

But of course their luck wasn’t going to last. Athos and Aramis both slowed down, a grim set to Athos’s jaw that needed no translation. Porthos straightened, trying to look the part of a Spanish soldier escorting a prisoner. They came to a stop as two more guards rounded the corner.

The Spaniards drew to a halt as well, eyeing the trio. Porthos grunted and jerked his head to the side in what he hoped was a gruff order for the two to let them pass. If only he and Aramis’s positions had been reversed… Porthos didn’t dare speak up, as it would be a trifle difficult to pass as a convincing Spanish soldier who only spoke French.

The two soldiers traded a look, then one stepped forward with a narrowed squint. His mouth was moving, so he was evidently saying something, not that it would have mattered if Porthos could hear or not. From the corner of his eye, he saw Athos shaking his head.

“No,” Porthos barked, following Athos’s lead, grateful that the word was fairly universal.

The guards’ suspicious squints darkened. Once again, Porthos felt the thrum of Aramis’s voice for a split second before the marksman jerked against him as though fighting to escape. Taken by surprise, Porthos’s fiercer grip as he yanked Aramis back was utterly genuine. Not knowing how to order his “prisoner” to hold still in Spanish, he settled for another low growl.

Their charade was barely passable and Porthos had an inkling that the newcomers weren’t fooled, but when the second guard narrowed his eyes on Athos, he knew they’d been discovered. He had a split second to act as the guards drew their pistols. Porthos saw the flash of a blade dance forward from his periphery but his full attention was locked on the guns aimed at Aramis, who couldn’t see the danger.

Leaving Athos to dispatch of the two, Porthos whirled around with his back to the soldiers, pulling Aramis against him to shield his friend with his body. For a long moment, he didn’t dare move, aware of nothing but his thudding heart and the vibration of whatever Aramis was saying.

Then, Athos was pulling them both around, face pale and sword dripping with blood. Aramis wriggled away, mouth moving rapidly. Turning to look over his shoulder, Porthos noted the two dead guards.

“Well, that was excitin’,” he thought he said. He wondered if either of the two sentries had managed to get a shot off before Athos had killed them. Then Athos held up his hand, and Porthos’s eyes widened when he saw the blood. “Athos! You hit?”

Athos shook his head, jabbing his finger towards Porthos instead. His mouth formed a word easy to read: _YOU._

Oh. Well, he’d known they were getting out way too easy and it was only a matter of time before something went wrong. Funny, he hadn’t even felt it happen. Even now, Porthos didn’t feel any obvious pain.

“Me? Where?” he asked, raising an arm and trying to twist around to look- _OH_ there was the pain, it had just taken a second. Porthos winced, feeling the flesh of his side throb in protest at the movement. Nothing vital then, like his heart, or his liver, or Aramis.

It wasn’t until Athos tapped his arm and pointed to said musketeer for Porthos to realize his friend was gripping his cloak and seemingly shouting.

“Hey, whoa, I’m fine,” Porthos cut in. “Athos got ‘em and he’s not hurt, and I’m just nicked a bit.”

Aramis’s mouth continued yammering as he pushed his gun towards Porthos, leaving his hands free to rip off a piece of the sash around his waist. Porthos hoped Aramis remembered that he couldn’t hear, so whatever he was saying wasn’t going to get an answer. Sometimes Aramis forgot little things like that.

In any case, Athos was the one who nodded, so Porthos dutifully translated, “Athos says yeah.”

This seemed to calm Aramis down—honestly, so high strung—as the marksman held out the fabric so Athos could press it against Porthos’s wound. The big musketeer hissed, but loosened his belt so he could refasten it tighter around the makeshift bandage to hold it in place. That would do for now, but more guards might have heard the ruckus and it was time to move.

They still had some escaping to do.  


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moving right along. So when I was a kid (and PC games were still cool and the graphics were terrible but it was all new so it was fun anyway) we had a demo game on our PC called Thief where you're in a castle literally just sneaking around and staying in the shadows and trying to avoid being seen by the enemy soldiers. This chapter was inspired by those fun memories XD
> 
> I'll post the final installment tomorrow. Usually I only post once or twice a week, but wanted to go ahead and get this fic posted (since it was only supposed to be a light-hearted oneshot originally but spoiler alert I'm not very good at stopping at a oneshot XD)

**Part 3: Aramis**

Aramis accepted the pistol back from Porthos, still muttering under his breath about the foolhardy move. It was sheer dumb luck that Porthos had escaped with nothing but a scratch. For god’s sake, what would they have done if he’d been badly wounded? Nevertheless, when he found Porthos’s arm again, Aramis gave him an extra firm squeeze, just so his friend would know that he was grateful as much as he was worried and angry.

“Right,” he finally said. “Let’s just get out of here. Porthos, please tell me we’re almost there.” Aramis waited, but of course there was no response. He snorted. “Athos?”

He felt a reassuring squeeze on his arm, then a brush of movement. For a second, even he doubted that Athos would find a way to communicate the question, but he should have had more faith than that because a second later, Porthos growled,

“Just a bit farther.”

Aramis held the gun tighter, trusting his friends to guide him along with the occasional muttered warning from Porthos to duck a bit, or to take care not to trip over a rug in their path. He wasn’t particularly concerned about shooting without being able to see, but walking was proving a bigger challenge.

Aramis wasn’t sure what that meant about his general priorities in life, but ah well.

Gradually, the distant sounds of general chatter began to grow stronger and louder. Aramis was also starting to get warmer; closing in on the kitchens, perhaps? Maybe the servants would be easier to fool with their “two soldiers and a prisoner” ruse. At the very least, they might be easier to intimidate into silence. Aramis grinned; maybe they could just set Porthos loose in the kitchen and terrify the staff into obedience. That would be a sight to see. 

If he could, in fact, see.

As the sound of voices drew nearer, Aramis couldn’t help but pull back slightly, not enjoying his inability to detect a threat in front of him if it appeared. Immediately, Porthos stopped and hissed,

“What, someone there?”

There was a short, silent pause, but he felt Athos lean around him, ostensibly to communicate something to Porthos.

“Aramis, he wants to know if you hear ‘em- oh, no sorry, he wants to know… eh… oh! What they’re sayin’. Bein’ Spanish an’ all.”

Aramis cocked his head, listening with all his might. Among the din of voices, he could also pick out footsteps. Clearly Athos heard it too, because in the next instant Aramis was being urged backwards until he felt a solid wall at his back. The warmth on his face disappeared; hiding in the shadows, then. How very cloak and dagger of them. Hands tugged him down into a crouch as the footsteps moved not far from wherever they hid.

Readying his finger on the pistol’s trigger just in case the passerby thought for one second they could do harm to Athos or Porthos, Aramis listened and waited.

Fortunately, the sound receded without incident, and Aramis returned his attention to the Spanish voices. Hmm… this wasn’t the kitchen at all, it must have been close to the dining hall where the soldiers gathered to eat, or else kitchen staff was significantly more violent these days. Not that Serge was an angel himself, but Aramis was pretty sure he wouldn’t have been talking like _this_.

“Well, there’s good news and bad news,” he said lightly. “The good news is they haven’t figured out we’ve escaped.” He paused, listening to more, blood starting to boil even as he felt ice in his veins, which was a peculiar feeling that left him in a cold sweat. An elbow nudged him hard and he didn’t need Porthos’s translation of Athos’s impatience.

His fists clenched. “The bad news is, they know Athos was never going to give them any useful information.” The marksman grinned, hoping his friends wouldn’t see how forced it was. “So we should really do our best to not get caught, because they have nothing pleasant planned for us.”

Aramis didn’t repeat what they were saying about how exactly they planned to kill Athos, or the bet currently going round about how long it might take for the musketeer to die.

Doubtless, his and Porthos’s sticky demise would follow shortly after, but since Athos was the one they’d been toying with all week, his suffering was the one they seemed to find amusing.

It was a good thing Aramis only had one shot in the pistol, or he might have burst in and slaughtered the lot of them, and he just didn’t have time for mass homicide right now.

“Yeah, I agree,” Porthos said, clearly doing his best to whisper. It took Aramis a second to recognize that his friend was probably responding to something Athos had communicated, and not Aramis’s internal desire to burst in and massacre the room.

“We gotta get past that door, Aramis,” Porthos went on. “Nothin’ for it, we’ll just have to go one at a time when no one’s lookin’. Athos is gonna go first, then I’ll tell you when it’s safe to move-”

“This is an awful plan,” Aramis complained, but of course Porthos kept talking over him.

“-an’ I’ll follow behind you. Once I get you in position, it’s… eh, looks to be about five paces to the other side. Jus’ stay low. An’, you know, don’t let ‘em see you.”

“That’s the best advice you can come up with?” he hissed, but the hand on his right arm had already disappeared, taking Athos’s presence away from him. Aramis shifted with anxiety at the loss, but trusted in the careful hold Porthos kept on him. After a few agonizingly silent moments, he heard Porthos exhale.

“Okay, he made it across. Let’s move. Remember, straight across once I say so.”

Aramis nodded, letting his friend guide him out from their hiding spot and press against another wall. Through the bandages around his face, Aramis thought he could detect the brightness of nearby torches, or perhaps that was just because he felt the heat of the flame and knew they were there. In any case, worrying about his eyes would have to happen later, when he wasn’t more worried about the next five paces of his life.

“Wait,” Porthos breathed in his ear, holding Aramis by both arms from behind now, both of them slightly crouched. “Athos will grab you on th’ other side. Wait…”

Aramis swallowed back nerves that only grew worse with every passing second of hovering between escape and discovery. His skin prickled when a solider inside the mess hall let out a boom of laughter, but he didn’t move until Porthos suddenly gave him a gentle push.

“Go!”

As silently as he could, Aramis dashed across, still hunched, until he felt Athos’s strong hands grab him by the sleeve and push him down into another cold corner. Safe. Ish. Well, no, this was still about as far from safe as he had been in quite some time now, and given their profession, that spoke volumes about this predicament.

Aramis barely breathed, listening with all his might for the familiar steady but surprisingly soft footsteps of his best friend. He shouldn’t have worried; growing up as a street thief in the Court of Miracles had equipped Porthos better than any of them to be light of foot and good at sneaking around unnoticed regardless of his size. With barely a sound, Porthos rejoined them on the other side of the hall opening.

“Made it,” Porthos said; though it was obvious he’d done so, Aramis was still grateful for the confirmation.

“Good. Let’s go.”

Once again, Aramis felt his two friends take him by the arms, guiding him swifter now through the castle halls. It was a disquieting thing to not know where he was going or what was in front of him, but his two guides never wavered and he put his complete trust in them.

A few times, they pressed back into the wall, hiding in the cold, stone corners; once, Porthos had to release his arm to take out a lone sentry before they could go further. Aramis waited, muttering prayers under his breath that Porthos wouldn’t be discovered, only to feel Athos’s hand on his shoulder squeeze in comforting reassurance, and Aramis remembered that Porthos was the best.

But he was also wounded, as was Athos, and every second that Aramis had to delay giving the two any sort of medical attention was little by little draining his ability to appear light-hearted.

It wouldn’t be so bad if he was able to see, but Aramis was starting to feel useless. Worse, he knew they would have been able to go faster if not for needing to help him along. But they would have sooner sat down and let themselves all be captured again than leave him behind, so Aramis didn’t even bother bringing up the point.

Finally, the sound he’d been waiting for; not the glorious battle cry of the garrison storming the castle, which would also have been nice, but the decidedly more unpleasant sound of an alarm being raised.

“Oh dear, that’s it for stealth, then,” he sighed, listening rigidly to the still distant shouts of soldiers that the prisoners had escaped.

Athos, back on his right, made a strangled sound and urged Aramis ahead quicker. Porthos couldn’t fail to notice the shift, demanding,

“They know?”

“They know,” Aramis confirmed, nodding so his deafened friend would understand. “Please tell me we really are almost there now, because last time I asked you that, I suspect you were fibbing.” 

“Hurry, then,” Porthos growled, not hearing the accusation. “Out that door, up the stairs, and we’ll be on the ramparts. The grapplin’ hook an’ line should still be in place. I hope.”

“He hopes,” Aramis repeated. “If not, we’ll finally be in _real_ trouble.”

Athos squeezed his arm in agreement. The sounds of the alarm call growing louder only served to intensify the very clear and present danger they were actually in. But now he felt his two guides slowing down, then stop altogether as Athos let go of him. A second later, Aramis heard the soft squeak of door hinges and felt a cold blast of air from outside. He held his tongue, waiting for the all clear.

Instead, the door closed quietly again, and Athos was drawing both of them to the side. Once again, they hunched against a corner. Aramis waited impatiently for Athos to describe the situation to Porthos who could then relay the message to him.

“Two men,” Porthos whispered. “One on the ramparts, one… eh… oh, one up in the turret. Damn.”

“Great,” Aramis muttered. “How are we going to take them both out before they sound an alarm? We can’t get close to the man on the ramparts without being spotted by the other. And we can’t get to their man in the tower without going through the one closer.”

“How we goin’ to get through those guys?” Porthos demanded. “As soon as we-”

“Yes, so we know,” Aramis interrupted with a hand reaching to find his friend’s shoulder.

Beside him, Athos made another strangled attempted to speak up; Aramis wanted to wince, but it made his own face hurt far too much, so he settled for shaking his head. “Don’t talk, Athos. We’ll figure something out.”

Perhaps Athos couldn’t speak, but he could still sigh impatiently. Aramis realized that the swordsman already had a plan; of course he did, he was Athos, he had probably already figured out a master plan for a mission that Treville didn’t even know he would one day assign them. Forcing back his impatience in deference to Athos’s strategic mind, Aramis waited once again for the relay of communications.

“Mm-hmm,” Porthos rumbled. “Yeah, okay. Eh? Right, should work.” Then a low, gleeful chuckle. “Yeah… yeah, that’s good, Athos.” 

Aramis sighed. “By all means, leave me in the dark.” Well, then again, he _was_ in the dark, quite literally. Athos patted his shoulder again and finally Porthos explained,

“Alright, Aramis, this is what we’re gonna do.” 

A few moments later, the three musketeers were slipping through the door into the cool night, edging close to the wall to presumably remain under the cover of darkness. Aramis felt Athos leave his side once again, but Porthos’s grip turned him around and raised his gun arm in an approximate angle of the nearby turret.

“I’ll tell you when,” Porthos murmured. “Hold up, Athos is gettin’ in place…”

“Hope the uniform is more convincing this time,” Aramis muttered back, though it fell on deaf ears. He waited, listening intently. As always when he was blindfolded, every other sense came into crystal clear focus. The marksman cocked his head, filtering out the sound of Pothos’s steady breath beside him, of Athos’s confident stride, of nocturnal insects buzzing and chirping from the nearby countryside. The sound of alarms from within had been shut out by the door, but he could almost feel the growing fervor of the Spaniards in the castle and knew it would spill out onto them soon.

­“ _¿_ _Quién está ahí?_ ” the closer guard called as Athos’s boots moved in the direction of the rampart.

Aramis put his finger to the trigger.

­“ _¿_ _Pedro?_ ” another voice yelled, farther and higher, accompanied by the distant click of a gun.

Aramis smiled and adjusted his aim. If he missed, the second guard would kill Athos where he stood. But Aramis wasn’t going to miss. He waited, knowing they had to move as one in a coordinated attack if they wanted a prayer of getting out of this alive.

But they were the Inseparables, and the teamwork and trust was implicit. Even without being able to see, Aramis watched it all in his mind’s eye. Athos lunging, running the first guard through the heart; at the exact same moment, Porthos yelled,

 _“_ NOW!”

Barely had the word left his lips, Aramis was already squeezing the trigger. The guard high in the turret hadn’t had time to react to Athos’s attack on his man below, hadn’t moved from where Aramis’s keen ears placed him. Aramis dropped the gun and straightened, not waiting for confirmation that he’d hit his target. He already knew he had.

Porthos’s booming laugh was verification enough as Aramis felt his arm grabbed once more.

“Knew you could do it,” Porthos declared cheerfully. “Right, time to move.”

“Athos?” Aramis called as he was hauled along. He reached out blindly with his free hand, heart not willing to settle until he felt the swordsman join them on his other side. Together, the three hurried along the stone rampart, following the wall of the parapet until Porthos grunted at them to stop.

“Right, here it is… just where we left it. I’m gonna go first so Athos can help you over the edge right behind me, Aramis. I’ll call out where the tricky bits are. You, uh… you gonna be able to make it down, yeah?”

“You realize I just shot a man off a tower with my eyes closed, and you want to know if I can climb down a rope?”

“Athos, what’s his fool self sayin’?”

The choked sound from Athos sounded both amused and impatient. Aramis shook his head and allowed his friends to back him into position. The sooner they reached firm ground, the sooner they could regroup with d’Artagnan—who he prayed to his God above had done as ordered and stayed with the horses—and the sooner they could get somewhere safe so he could start putting his friends back together.

Then, and only then, would Aramis be able to rest.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And finally we get to see d'Artagnan in all of this, and the trio gets taken care of ^_^ Had to have a few serious moments given the circumstances, but please enjoy this final installment!

**Part 4: d’Artagnan**

D’Artagnan watched the last tinges of color fade from the sky and kicked at a loose clod of grass. Night had almost totally fallen. The thought of staying out here overnight on his own without knowing how long it would take Porthos and Aramis to retrieve Athos was unappealing. Almost as bad as the thought of mucking out the garrison stables for a week, which was probably what was waiting for him back home.

But if a little insubordination and a trifling amount of what definitely had not been outright rebellion (because Athos wouldn’t approve of that) was what it took for d’Artagnan to be granted permission to join the rescue mission, then that was that. The captain shouldn’t have been foolish enough to believe that he would really sit this out.

Besides, d’Artagnan still had friends in Gascony who could provide them a safe place to recover inside the border if anyone ended up wounded. Didn’t it just make sense for him to come along?

And after only a year with these three, d’Artagnan already knew the idea of emerging from this without any injuries was not only unlikely, it was laughable. 

Still, waiting around with the horses was _not_ what he’d had in mind. D’Artagnan kicked the grass clod again and huffed in aggravation.

“D’Artagnan!”

Whirling, instinctively drawing his sword, d’Artagnan squinted into the darkness to make out several figures heading his way. He nearly collapsed in relief to see that there were three of them. As they drew closer, though, the young Gascon narrowed his eyes.

“What…” His stupefied gaze trailed over the trio as they stopped close enough for the moonlight to reveal their respective conditions.

“He’s still here, then? Good lad, d’Artagnan,” Aramis exclaimed, bandages wrapped around his face, held on either side by the other two.

“Stop here, Aramis, it’s d’Artagnan!” Porthos all but bellowed in Aramis’s ear, as though the marksman hadn’t just mentioned this very thing.

“I know that, Porthos! And not a moment too soon, I can feel you starting to limp worse, you know. Athos, will you be able to ride?”

Athos wasn’t saying a word, face exhausted, but he nodded. After a second, Aramis demanded,

“Surely one of you must realize I can’t see what he answered!”

“What… happened?” d’Artagnan demanded, staring. “You were only gone for an hour!”

“What did he say?” Porthos shouted towards Athos, who looked to be fading fast.

“Forget what he said, what did _Athos_ say?” Aramis shouted back. “Can he ride or not?”

“Yes,” d’Artagnan replied. He shook his head. “I take back all the things I’ve been saying about you for the last hour. I’m glad you made me stay here after all.”

“Wait, what were you saying about us?”

“D’Artagnan, how far to the border?” Porthos boomed. “Aramis isn’t goin’ to be able to ride an’ they both have wounds that need seein’ to.”

“Less than two hours,” d’Artagnan said, holding up two fingers. “I know a place just inside the border we can rest the night. Looks like you need to be tended to as well…”

“What?”

“I can ride,” Aramis protested. Given his by now familiar protest of being “fine” even if he had just been stabbed or thrown out a window or clobbered unconscious, d’Artagnan couldn’t help but shoot him a skeptical smirk.

“I don’t think even you can claim to be alright, Aramis.”

“What’s he sayin’? He ain’t arguin’ is he?”

Athos stepped forward at last, slamming his hands together in a booming clap that Aramis couldn’t help but hear and Porthos couldn’t help but see. All three of them fell silent as the swordsman’s weary eyes turned to d’Artagnan. Athos pointed to Aramis, then d’Artagnan, then to a horse.

D’Artagnan nodded. “Aramis will ride with me,” he agreed aloud for Aramis’s benefit. “And you’ll ride with Porthos. It’s not easy terrain, Athos, especially in the dark, and you look dead on your feet.”

Athos didn’t even try to protest, just turned to Porthos and repeated the gesture: Porthos, himself, horse.

“Right. An’ we need to hurry, d’Artagnan. They’ll be comin’ after us as soon as they realize we’ve made it outta the castle.”

D’Artagnan hadn’t even unpacked his bedroll, having hoped the rescue would be a quick one, so it was the work of a moment to load up two of the horses. The remaining two, d’Artagnan cut loose to find new homes; he didn’t want to worry about leading them along if speed was of the essence. This done, he helped Aramis up into the saddle then pulled himself into place behind him. Porthos walked his own horse in line with d’Artagnan’s, keeping Athos safely in front of him, and then they were off.

Despite the darkness, d’Artagnan knew their horses had excellent night vision and would do better to be given their own heads. The ride was still tense and cold, but no pursuers ever caught up and a couple of hours later, d’Artagnan nearly sagged with relief to find themselves in France once again. It was highly unlikely any enemy soldiers would follow escaped prisoners this far, not without a better reason than whatever the trio had probably done to give them reason to.

By the time he found the inn at the small border town, whose owner was an old family friend, Athos’s head was drooping against his chest and even Aramis was silent. D’Artagnan helped them all dismount, handed off the reins to the stable boy, and guided his friends to a room inside.

“Athos,” Aramis finally spoke up as Porthos urged the rescued swordsman to sit on the nearest bed. “When was the last time they fed you?”

D’Artagnan’s gaze shot over to Athos, who frowned thoughtfully and shook his head.

“You don’t remember?” d’Artagnan tried, feeling a shadow fall across his face. Athos shook his head again to confirm.

Of all the dishonorable things. The younger musketeer clenched his jaw. “Hold on, I’ll have Alexandre bring some food and water.”

Now that they were in relative safety, the reality of not only Athos’s ordeal but his other two friends’ conditions was starting to set in. All three probably needed a doctor, but a village as small as this was unlikely to have one, and their usual medic couldn’t see.

But they were also clearly exhausted, and he doubted any of them could go further tonight.

Returning to the room, d’Artagnan looked quickly between the three and then moved to Athos first.

“What do I need to do?” he half-pleaded, desperate to help his mentor. “Where are you injured?”

Athos tipped his chin up, pointing to his throat, as Aramis blindly felt his way over, stumbling somewhat. D’Artagnan caught his breath to see the marks there, unwilling to believe that fellow soldiers would be so harsh with an unarmed prisoner.

“It’ll help if we can bring the swelling down,” Aramis told him as he ripped off another piece of his sash. He hesitated, then asked, “Did they use a rope to choke you with?”

Athos shook his head.

“No,” d’Artagnan translated for him. “Definitely used their hands, Aramis, I- I can see the handprints.” He felt sick, though the idea of Athos gasping for breath against a noose was an even worse thought.

Aramis inhaled sharply and nodded. “Okay, good. We’ll want to wrap a cold, wet cloth around it, so hopefully that won’t be too… discomforting. D’Artagnan, I need you to take this cloth and dunk it in the water bucket, then hang it out the window. After he’s washed off and gotten something to eat, it should be cold enough to wrap. Athos, any other injuries?”

The swordsman shook his head.

“Are you telling the truth?” d’Artagnan asked quietly.

Athos’s eyes softened, offering him a small smile as he nodded. 

When d’Artagnan could find no trace of a lie, he took the ripped fabric from Aramis and stood. “Okay. We only have a few fresh bandages left, so I’ll fetch some more of those as well. Aramis, Porthos, it’s your turn when I get back.”

He hurried to complete the required tasks; when he returned with bandages and a tray of food, d’Artagnan couldn’t help but grin at the sight of Athos sitting on the bed with a long-suffering expression, one hand in either of the others’ laps as Porthos and Aramis wrapped their remaining bandages around each of his wrists where the manacles had probably bit into his skin as he fought.

“Don’t complain,” Aramis was saying airily, doing surprisingly deft work for not being able to see. “Just because you can’t talk doesn’t mean I can’t hear all the things you’re saying in your head right now about how unnecessary this all is-”

Athos nodded fervently.

“-but you’ll thank me later when you don’t die of infection. Or gangrene will set in and they’ll have to cut your hands off so you don’t get blood poisoning, and how will you hold your swords then? With your teeth?”

Athos rolled his eyes.

“There, that should just about do it, and then you can get washed up and eat, then sleep. I daresay you need it.”

With a strained sigh of relief, Athos pulled away from his two doctors, still trailing the ends of bandages, and took the bowl of stew d’Artagnan held out to him. D’Artagnan was glad to see if nothing else, their spirits were all intact.

“Alright, Aramis, next I-”

“-will see to Porthos,” Aramis finished for him firmly. “He was shot. Don’t let him tell you otherwise.”

With a nervous gulp, d’Artagnan regarded the larger musketeer, notoriously unpleasant around needles, and asked, “Is this… going to require sewing?”

“I don’t know. Have him show you the wound, and describe it to me.”

D’Artagnan tugged Porthos’s sleeve and gestured to the bandage pressed to his side. Porthos frowned.

“See to Aramis next.”

“We’ll get to me. You were _shot_ ,” Aramis retorted impatiently. His shoulders slumped. “While protecting me. So, no, we’re going to take care of you first.”

D’Artagnan shook his head at Porthos and again pointed to his side, then knelt in front of the musketeer for a better look when Porthos huffed and pulled the bandage aside with a sharp hiss. D’Artagnan grabbed the bowl of water so he could dab a clean cloth in and start washing the blood away.

“How’s it look?” Porthos asked as he tugged his shirt up to give d’Artagnan a better view. “Just a bandage, right? No need for anythin’ drastic.” He chuckled weakly, eyes hopeful.

“D’Artagnan?” Aramis asked. “If the ball’s still in there, you’re going to have to get it out. Wrapping a bandage is one thing, but stitches and surgery are a little beyond me at the moment, I’m afraid.”

D’Artagnan shook his head, thanking his lucky stars as he answered, “No, I see an exit wound. It’s not as bad as the blood made it look. Went through flesh, but nothing else.”

“Now look here, pup, if you’re even _thinkin’_ about needlework-”

“I’m not,” d’Artagnan assured him loudly, shaking his head. “No need to fear, my friend, looks like we’ve both been spared.”

“Oh. Alright, then.”

“So dramatic,” Aramis scoffed. “Make sure it’s clean, then just get a bandage on him.”

“What do I do about his ears? Why can’t he hear anything?”

“Ruptured eardrums. They’ll have to heal on their own, so let’s just bandage them for now to keep anything out while they’re healing. Once that ringing in his ears dissipates, I’m sure he’ll be back to his normal self, maybe even by tomorrow.”

D’Artagnan relayed the message to Porthos as best as he could, though apparently his skills at pantomime were less than adequate, judging by the snickers it received. D’Artagnan glowered at his patient and wrapped the bandages with less gentleness than he might have otherwise.

Two down, and now only Aramis to go. By that point, Athos had finished washing up and eating—the quiet sounds of pain from swallowing and near frantic relief at having food were equally difficult to listen to—so d’Artagnan brought the now icy wrapping in from outside the window and looped it gingerly around the musketeer’s throat, murmuring apologies as he did. Athos barely even winced, stoic as ever, but he did give d’Artagnan a tired nod of gratitude.

“Get some sleep,” d’Artagnan tried to insist; Athos only pointed towards Aramis, and d’Artagnan knew none of the three would be getting any rest until every injury had been addressed. “Very well.” He should have known better, at any rate. “Alright, Aramis… what do I do?”

If Aramis was even a little afraid, he was hiding it well, which meant it was a distinct possibility. D’Artagnan had never known anyone like these three to continue to joke and cut up as though they weren’t on the brink of a fully justified bout of terror. Aramis only inhaled deeply and said,

“Let’s start with getting these bandages off. And douse any lights that aren’t absolutely necessary.”

“Okay.” Doing as he was bidden, d’Artagnan carefully began to unwind the cloth from around Aramis’s face. Up close, he could hear the slight shakiness in Aramis’s breath, confirming his belief that his friend was more anxious than he was letting on. Porthos had fallen as silent as Athos, both musketeers sitting with their eyes fixed unblinking on Aramis.

D’Artagnan didn’t ask what would happen if the musketeer lost his sight for good; no matter how valiant a fighter and how lethal a sharpshooter he was still sure to be, they all knew it was cause for dismissal from the regiment.

Aramis’s face under the bandage was red, his eyes clenched closed. A welt ran across one eye in a mirror image of Porthos’s scar, leaving it swollen enough that he probably wouldn’t be able to open it if he tried. Several splinters had ended up embedded in his face. Gently, d’Artagnan washed away the dirt and blood and pulled the debris free of the skin. More than one piece had come dangerously close to the eye sockets, but none seemed to have actually pierced the eyeball that he could tell.

“Now what?”

Aramis grimaced. “Now I suppose I can’t put it off any longer.”

D’Artagnan found himself holding his breath, leaning in with the others, as Aramis slowly blinked his one good eye open. The sharpshooter jerked a hand up to shield it from the light of the nearby candle d’Artagnan had been using to work with, but the dark eye tracked immediately over to the younger musketeer.

Aramis huffed. “Would have preferred a beautiful damsel to be the first thing I saw, not your ugly face.”

Athos sat back with evident relief as d’Artagnan grinned widely at his friend and clapped Aramis on the shoulder. “Thank heaven!”

“He’s alright, then?” Porthos boomed, anxious but beaming. “Hah! Knew there was nothin’ to worry about!”

“Yes, you weren’t worried for a second,” Aramis replied with a snort, slumping back on the bed. “Nor was I. The bandages will have to stay on, though… some of these cuts felt too close to the eye and I can’t take the chance of infection.”

With a much lighter heart, d’Artagnan wrapped the fresh bandages around Aramis’s face. So none of them had any lasting injury, or at least it seemed at the moment that they would all somehow squeak by with no permanent damage. Only these three, he thought with fondness. But, if there were ever three men who deserved the favor of Lady Luck…

“Alright,” he said. “What else do I need to do?”

“Rest,” Aramis advised. “You did marvelous, d’Artagnan.”

D’Artagnan grinned but didn’t move towards the bed, instead making his way to the chair in the corner where he could keep an eye on the three easily. As he did so, Porthos kicked off his boots and threw one at Aramis. It glanced off his shoulder, startling the marksman.

“Ow! What was that for-”

“That’s for whatever you an’ Athos were sayin’ about me back there when I couldn’t hear you.”

“If you must know, we were agreeing how lucky we were to have you watching our backs, and how the Spanish would never see you coming! Then I predicted, quite accurately, that you were going to start thinking we were talking about you!”

“You said what?”

“Why are you even asking me questions when you know you won’t hear the answer?”

“D’Artagnan, what’s he sayin’ about me?”

D’Artagnan held up his hands. “Leave me out of this.”

“Yeah we’ll see how funny you think you are when none of your lovers want to come near that face of yours now.”

“As funny as it is that none of them wanted to go near yours to begin with.”

“What?”

“I said I left a rat under your pillow, I hope you don’t mind.”

D’Artagnan glanced over at Athos, now reclined against the headboard, and caught the swordsman’s eye. Athos smiled lightly, drowsy eyelids falling heavier and heavier. For the moment, they were all together, and they were all safe (as long as there was in fact no rat under Porthos’s pillow).

For the moment, all was right with the world.


End file.
